


pióro [feather]

by dandelionslute



Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: M/M, creature!Jaskier, geralt being soft with jaskier, harpy!jaskier, winged!jaskier
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-18
Updated: 2020-03-18
Packaged: 2021-03-01 03:47:16
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,685
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23198812
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dandelionslute/pseuds/dandelionslute
Summary: In a desperate moment, Jaskier reveals his biggest secret to Geralt. There's two of them, and they're big, black and feathery.[Written for a tumblr prompt for a user who wanted a winged!Jaskier AU].
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 16
Kudos: 754





	pióro [feather]

**Author's Note:**

> The title is the polish word for feather.

He’d never seen Jaskier completely naked.

And sure, that wasn’t a particularly unexpected thing for two men.

Except for that it sort of was. Because when you travel with another for as long as they had, you expect to see certain.. things. You expect to see the flaws and shortcoming’s of another’s personality. You expect to see their eyes light up at the sight of something that piques their curiosity. And you expect to see the bare torso of that person when they’re swapping clothes, bathing, or fucking.

Not that the last one really applied here.

“Where are we going tonight then, Geralt?”

Geralt stops thinking about fucking and turns to Jaskier, adjusting the armour on his shoulders and straightening his shirt. “ _I’m_ going to hunt a werewolf. I don’t care what you do... but don’t leave town.”

Jaskier pouts and puts his hands on his hips, like he always fucking does when he’s unhappy with Geralt. “I’m coming. A _werewolf_! Oh, I’ve yet to see one in the flesh. Or is it fur? I wonder, perhaps, if they are as terrifying as the tales..”

“They are,” Geralt interjects, and pulls on his boots with a grunt. He lifts his eyes and glares at Jaskier. “And you’re not coming.”

Jaskier pouts again.

-

Geralt had been prepared for a fight with a werewolf, but a fight with _two_? He makes a mental note to strangle the town alderman for failing to mention this fairly important detail.

He makes quick work of taking down the first one, quickly throwing Yrden to slow the creature before delivering a fatal swing of his silver sword right through the hairy chest of the thing.

What he hadn’t been prepared for, was the second, slightly smaller but much more agile werewolf which had launched at him from the thick forest behind him. Had he been more cautious, he might have sensed the beast lurking there, but part of his brain was still thinking about fucking.

_God damn it._

And the creature throws itself at Geralt from the trees with a snarling mouth and stretched wide claws, and before Geralt has the chance to fully spin and catch it, he’s shrouded in darkness and an almighty cry pierces the air.

It takes him a moment for his brain to catch up, and the dark shadows around him fall away, and he hears a _thud_ against the ground off to his left. But there’s no time to look, because the wolf jumps back towards him and he barely manages to heave his sword from the ground and pierce it through the heart of the beast, but he does manage. Somehow. And the creature whimpers and falls lifeless to the ground.

-

_What the fuck just happened?_

He keeps his sword raised and twists to the left, and the still body of a man lays in the dirt, one huge black wing crushed underneath him and the other covering him like a babe in a blanket.

“Jaskier,” he says, but it doesn’t sound like his voice. His sword falls to the floor and he sinks to his knees beside the bard, touching his face. “ _Jaskier_ ,” he says more firmly, and shakes the man by the shoulder.

Jaskier makes a small sound and coughs, blinking up at Geralt and wincing. “I saved you,” he says smugly, and he blacks out.

-

‘You’re a fucking idiot’ are the first words Jaskier hears when he wakes up.

-

Is _this_ why he’s never seen Jaskier naked? Well, his top half, at least. Is this why Jaskier never strips or bathes around him? He stares down at the bard, laying in the grass on his belly where Geralt had put him, with _two massive fucking wings_ sticking out of his back - protruding from red scar-like slits between his shoulder blades.

“You’re a fucking idiot,” is about all Geralt can manage when Jaskier opens his eyes. He stares down at the bard, and the damaged wing hanging off to his left. It’s missing a chunk of feathers where the werewolf’s claws had slashed through it, and it’s bending out an an uncomfortable looking angle, but then again, how would Geralt know what an _uncomfortable wing_ looks like?

“What are you?” he asks, his voice softer this time.

Jaskier shifts in the grass and his wings seem to move independently of his body, tensing a little and then spreading wider. “I’m a harpy.”

“You can’t be a harpy. They’re vile creatures.”

Jaskier gives a weak laugh and he pushes himself onto his hands and knees, and falls backwards to sit down. His wings hang loose behind him. “Not all of us,” he says, looking up at Geralt with a mysterious sort of smile.

“Elaborate.”

“There’s not.. many of us left. Harpies used to be just like regular humans except.. well,” his wings jump up as if a puppeteer were pulling on strings and they fall back down. “But we were driven to near extinction, Geralt. We were a great race of winged humans, but eventually.. normal humans began to fear us. Thought us something to be afraid of because we were different to them,” he says, and sees the knowing look in Geralt’s eye. “And so they spread fear and hate, and they put bounties on our heads... or, wings, rather. Those of my kind who weren’t killed, fled. This was all before I was born, of course,” he adds, trailing his fingers through the cold grass.

“You might wonder how you’ve known me so long and I still look so fantastic,” Jaskier says with a playful tone, flashing Geralt a smile. “We are blessed with a long life. Those who escaped the killings fled into mountains and caves, and slowly, after centuries of living in solitude and exile, the darkness consumed them.”

Geralt watches as Jaskier swallows and his throat seems to tighten. The bard looks up at Geralt with a frown. “Slowly, my ancestors became monsters. They were forced into dark, dank caves and they slowly lost their humanity. And they became foul, clawed creatures. But my mother... my mother survived.”

Geralt notices the crack of his voice, but doesn’t interrupt.

“She survived because she... cut off her wings. And she lived among the humans, and she lived knowing what they did to her kind. _Her family_. She did it because she was pregnant with me. And when I was born, she took me in to the forest, and she raised me until I was a young boy. And when I was old enough, she gave me a hug and told me to go. And to _never_ show anyone my wings.”

Geralt isn’t quite sure what to say, so he says “Fuck.” And he instantly regrets not saying something more comforting, more eloquent, more empathetic.

Jaskier doesn’t seem to mind. He nods, and repeats the word. “Fuck.”

“You never told me,” Geralt says, and slowly kneels down beside Jaskier.

Jaskier huffs and crosses him arms. “Weren’t you listening to my story, Geralt? My mother told me to _never show.”_

“And you can usually hide them?” Geralt asks, his hand reaching out to gently touch the slit in Jaskier’s back where the undamaged wing extends from. “Here?”

Jaskier shudders at the touch and his feathers spread, because _that’s_ an interesting sensation that he’s never quite experienced before. He shies his wing away from Geralt. “Yes, there. I was lucky. My mother kept me from turning into one of those awful... she kept me pure of heart. And so I get to look like a human, but I have to hide my wings.”

Geralt ponders this for a moment and then suddenly, his nostrils flare and he’s glaring at Jaskier. “You weren’t supposed to follow me,” he says harshly. “You could’ve gotten yourself killed.”

“But aren’t you glad I was there? I saved your stupid arse from being a werewolf’s scratching post.”

“And got yourself hurt in the process,” Geralt says, moving further around to Jaskier’s back to inspect the damaged wing. It looks limper and more ragged than the other one, and the gap of missing feathers is hard to miss. 

“They’ll grow back,” Jaskier shrugs. “I just won’t be able to retract them for a few hours - maybe overnight. It hurts.”

“We can stay here,” Geralt says, his eyes fixed on the places that the wings disappear into his skin. He reaches out again and touches Jaskier’s feathers, and Jaskier doesn’t shy away. “Until you’re ready.” 

They sit in silence for a moment, the sound of night creeping in around them.

“How old are you, Jaskier?”

“About two hundred years old, give or take.”

\- 

They lay down in the grass, under the light of the full moon and stars, and spoon. It’s not like they’ve never done it before. Sharing small beds was difficult for two grown men, and it was easier when you let your body naturally curve and slot against each other.

The problem is, Geralt can’t stop staring at Jaskier’s wings. _Wings_ , he thinks, _because this is a real thing that he now knows about._ He’s hypnotised by the black feathers that start in a thick, muscular sort of bunch against his shoulder blades, and extend into soft and sleek black _wings_. Jaskier’s laying on his right side, his right wing nicely folded up against the ground and his damaged left one stretched out over him.

Geralt can’t help it when he reaches his fingers forward and touches the space between Jaskier’s shoulder blades. Jaskier shivers, and Geralt takes it as an invitation to drag his fingers sideways and stroke them against the sleek expanse of black feathers, down Jaskier’s body. He shivers again.

“That’s... nice,” Jaskier settles for, his body curling tighter and pushing backwards into Geralt. “Nobody’s ever done that before.”

Geralt watches the way his muscles tense, and then loosen and relax into the feel of Geralt’s fingers skating and sliding in gentle exploration. Jaskier sighs and squirms and the gentleness of it all has Geralt wondering just how much pleasure he can wring from Jaskier just from this.

And he thinks about fucking again.

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you guys liked this!! I hope the backstory about Jaskier's mother/the harpy race was not too difficult to follow because honestly I got a little lost while writing it. <33


End file.
